Point Blank
by Drama-Duchess
Summary: The missing (or alternative) scene right after Endeavour gets shot in the episode "Home". Perhaps the gunshot wound was more serious than it appeared. Will Endeavour be alright?


**This is a short drabble that came to me after watching "Home". The slightly sadistic side of me just couldn't resist the opportunity for Endeavor whump - (esp since Shaun Evans is such a darling.) I kept wishing the show delved a little more into the "getting shot" part. **

**Title****: Point Blank**

It happened so incredibly fast. One minute he was on the phone requesting an ambulance and the next, he was staring down the barrel of a gun held by none other than Mrs. Millicent Norris, a vial and cold-blooded killer. His heartbeat hammered painfully against his chest, making it desperately hard to breathe. The palpitations thumped in his ears so loud that he swore old Millie could hear it from where she stood. He was supposed to be trained as a Detective Constable to access situations like these, but right then every fiber of his being froze on spot. He was still so green and wet behind the ears. He had so much to learn yet and nothing could've prepared him for this. There was more to policing than the personal satisfaction of piecing together the puzzle, following the evidence, solving crimes and bringing closure to people. Perhaps the only other thing he disliked more than the danger was the dead bodies. He kept telling himself that it came with the territory - taking the good with the bad.

With his degree of exposure to crimes and homicide, he should have been immune to it by now. But somehow, he never really got over the horror of staring into the glassy unseeing eyes of the dead. But of course, he wouldn't be the first or the last Detective Constable to still be squeamish about seeing bloodied, dead bodies after such an extended period of time. He didn't fancy attending autopsies either and would very much prefer it if the file would just be placed on his desk. He wondered if he'd ever get used to the idea of seeing the mangled and mutilated dead.

Danger wasn't something he gave much thought on. Well, until now. The possibility of getting hurt on the job was not something he anticipated to happen, at least not so soon. He always found himself crossing boundaries and absentmindedly diving head first into potentially dangerous situations without taking any precaution. Often times, he had a habit of neglecting his own safety but not because he didn't care, it was more so because he got caught up with solving the case and chasing leads.

He figured it out. It was Millie who murdered her husband and dumped the body on the curb. It was she who murdered Georgina, mistaking her for Judy Vallens. And it was she, the middle-aged, frail-looking, petite woman with a slightly librarian appearance, who also murdered Ian Kern. She didn't fit the profile of a murderer. Love and money are two very powerful motives. It's enough to drive someone to extremes.

He felt like he'd overcome a great hurdle in finally cracking the case. But right then, as he stood there like a deer in headlights, he just realized he hadn't covered all his bases. And from the looks of things, he was in big trouble. Millie's hands were steady, like that of an experienced killer. She did not flinch as she aimed the gun, point blank at her target. There was pure hatred and determination in her eyes - not a single moment of hesitation. She knew what she had to do to protect herself. After killing three people, what's one more to add to the list? He could see her index finger tighten against the trigger.

Suddenly, two gun shots went off. As the sharp noise erupted, he saw Detective Inspector Thursday standing in the doorway to the lounge with a smoking gun in his hands. The fatal bullet had pierced through Millie's heart and her lifeless body fell into the chair. Detective Inspector Thursday's eyes were glued on Millie for a few seconds, before he looked at his colleague.

"Morse!" DI Thursday cried. There was a sense of urgency in his voice.

Morse didn't understand the worried expression on Thursday's face. It didn't occur to him that anything was wrong until he looked down at his shirt. There was a peculiar dark red spot growing and it was only then that he realized he'd been shot. Blood seeped out of a gunshot wound on his side and within a few short seconds, the hot searing pain followed. It was more than Morse could handle. His knees gave out and he collapsed onto the floor just as DI Thursday came rushing towards him.

He stared at the ceiling, wondering if this was how he was going to die. His breathing was a little heavier now and he felt an unbearable amount of pain. He couldn't move or speak. All he could do was lie there helplessly and wait for either someone to help him or for death to come quicker. There were sounds and movement around him. An odd burnt smell mixed with spent gunpowder filled his nostrils. He watched DI Thursday reach over and grab the telephone that was hanging off the hook. Some words were exchanged into the receiver, Morse didn't hear it clearly, but he knew it had something to do with him being shot and medical attention was needed.

"Morse?" DI Thursday said after inspecting the bloody wound. He was no medical professional, but judging by the looks of things, it was a nasty-looking wound. He quickly shed off his coat and administered the only first aid he knew - applying pressure to the wound to slow the bleeding. He took Morse's head into the crook of his arm and cradled him protectively. "Can you hear me, lad?"

Morse stared at Thursday with complete helplessness in his glossy eyes. His face had gotten ashy and quite pale from the blood loss. Perspiration dotted his face and white forehead. His breathing was starting to be uncomfortable and he was so very tired. The loss of blood rendered him lightheaded and he wanted to close his eyes, even if just for a minute. Consciousness was pulling on him.

"You're going to be alright." DI Thursday tried to sound as convincing as possible. "I need you to stay with me. You have to stay awake." He gave the young detective constable a gentle shake.

Morse's eyes fluttered open. He opened his mouth to speak but only a soft pitiful grunt came out. He needed to tell DI Thursday that he was sorry for screwing things up. If only he put one and one together, he should have known that the pistol was hidden under the cushion within Millie's grasp. None of this would've happened if only he paid closer attention to detail. In most cases, he had a knack for always being one step ahead of the game. But all it took was a moment of carelessness for something like this to happen. It was his fault that he had to die this way, and for what? There was nothing sacrificial about being stupid.

He hated to think that his father was right all along. He was supposed to be set for life. He had a full scholarship to St. John's College, Oxford. He started at the top of his class, but he let things slip over a petty love affair. His father always said he was a loser of sorts. And in a way, the old man was right. Morse managed to get himself kicked out of a prestigious school - therefore, losing his bright, and most likely wealthy, future. Heck, he couldn't even keep a woman. He'd lost pretty much everything. After leaving the Royal Corps of Signals, perhaps the smartest thing he ever did was join the police force, despite however many resignation letters he'd written but never finding the opportunity to hand it in. He didn't want to admit it, but he actually liked working with DI Thursday. Solving puzzles was something he was good at. As he lay there on the Oriental rug in Millie's lounge, probably bleeding to death, he couldn't help but think how much of a loser, and to a degree - a quitter, he really had become. He was scared and the salty lump grew in his throat.

"Don't try to speak." DI Thursday advised. "You'll be fine...as good as new."

Upon seeing his young detective constable's glassy eyes welling up with tears, DI Thursday was taken back with emotions. Morse was too young to die. Of all the partners he'd been paired up with in his career, Morse was probably the only one who seriously showed potential of becoming something great. He was a workaholic and a perfectionist - putting in extra hours typing up case reports and going through evidence with a fine tooth comb. DI Thursday hadn't seen this kind of dedication in a long time. The scrawny, sandy-haired kid had a nose for detective work and often times, reminded DI Thursday very much of himself at that age. Such talent was hard to come by these days and it would be a shame for it to go to waste. Besides, he'd gotten rather attached to him.

Morse tried with all his might to hold back the tears. He wanted to be strong. Even at his weakest, most vulnerable moment, he did not want to fall apart in front of his superior. The pain was intense and the pressure applied to the wound made it worst. He never imagined getting shot would feel like this. Having the life slowly drained from his body was a cruel way to die. Perhaps it was time to give up. Perhaps he should let go. Why should he hang on anyway? There wasn't one good reason for him to live for. He wouldn't mind taking the easy way out. His face turned whiter and he stared at DI Thursday with empty eyes. The abnormal rising and falling of Morse's chest was enough to drill grief into his soul.

"Don't give up. Do you hear?" DI Thursday coaxed gently. "That's an order."

Morse couldn't understand why DI Thursday was forbidding him to die, especially since deep down inside, he always wanted to die. Why was he so scared suddenly? Perhaps there was a piece of him that actually wanted to live? DI Thursday believed in him and believed in the things he stood for. Perhaps DI Thursday saw something worthy in him that no one else had. For a person who was confined to solitary and never really fit in or "belonged" anywhere, Morse was touched.

The comforting sounds of blaring sirens were drawing nearer and nearer. It wasn't long before an array of different voices could be heard outside. There were car motors rattling, the scuffling of hurried footsteps to and fro, and the opening and closing of doors. The cavalry had finally arrived and it wouldn't be long now before the medics came charging into the room. Morse figured he was as good as saved. Things were going to be alright after all. All this worry for no reason. He felt a twinge of pain shoot up his spine. He arched his back slightly and made an attempt to cry out, though not successful. Darkness was upon him.

DI Thursday watched young Morse with extreme pity. Suddenly, Morse's breathing became slow and he winced slightly. A stray tear escaped the corner of his eye before he allowed his eyes to close. His facial features relaxed and his body went limp in DI Thursday's arms.

"Morse!" DI Thursday shouted in great alarm. "Morse, wake up." He shook the unconscious constable but to no avail. "Endeavor!" He exclaimed one last time. It was only then that a handful of policemen rushed their way into the room followed by a pair of medics, and finally, Dr. Max DeBryn. The pathologist wore a concerned expression on his face when he caught a glimpse of Morse. His job was examining the deceased but he just couldn't help but stare at the medics working frantically on Morse for a few seconds.

Morse knew nothing of what went on about him. Just when he felt like he was falling deeper and deeper into a big black void, something brought him back briefly. He was being bounced around in an ambulance. He couldn't open his eyes but he heard people talking near him. There was the voice of a stranger and another voice that he recognized. It was DI Thursday. He wanted to say something but he couldn't move his jaw. There was something cupped around his face - oxygen mask? Before he could figure out what the voices were saying, he fell back into the safety net of the darkness.

He had no idea what time, or day, it was when he next awoke. He was lying on a strange hard bed - one that he knew wasn't his own. There was no noise except for a soft beep every now and then. It was pretty obvious from the soreness and pain that he was still alive. His head hurt. His body hurt. Everything hurt. At least the annoying oxygen mask was removed and he could breathe feely. Moving was a bad idea because it made the pain that much worse. He groaned uncomfortably.

"Well, look who's awake." It was a tender, motherly tone. It sounded familiar and yet it didn't. He'd heard it somewhere before, though he couldn't pin point where. "You had us quite worried, dear. Isn't that right, Fred?"

"Yep. But I knew he wouldn't disobey my orders. I'm his chief, as you know." It was DI Thursday's jovial voice that rang out next.

Morse turned his head slowly and waited for his vision to adjust to the light. A slight groan passed his lips. The woman was wearing a pastel dress with her dark hair pinned up into a neat bun on the top of her graceful head. She sat in an old chair by his bedside. He recognized the matronly figure at once.

"Mrs. Thursday." Morse's voice came out scratchy and rough. He didn't like making a spectacle of himself and felt he was not deserving of such attention.

"He recognizes me, which is a good sign. And it's Win, dear. How do you feel?" Mrs. Thursday said, while alternating glances between her husband and Morse.

"I've seen better days." Morse replied softly. He wanted to ask why she had come, but she already beat him to it.

"Don't you worry one bit. After all that's happened. We're going to take good care of you." She patted him on the knee.

"See, you're her next project." DI Thursday explained.

"Project?" Morse sounded confused. He turned to face DI Thursday.

"Yes, project." DI Thursday exchanged an all-knowing look with his wife. "Win's a bit of a mother hen when it comes to poor injured strays. I believe she's taken you under her wing. So, be prepared to be fussed over."

"Until you get back on your feet, I will make sure you get proper nourishment. Oh, just look at you. You've lost weight. You look like a walking stick. Just wait until I put some food in you. I make a mean shepherd's pie." Win rambled.

Win Thursday had quite a scare when the station contacted her. The phone call was sketchy because at the time, no one could confirm which of the two it was who got shot. They were also unable to say for sure how serious the injury was. However, they _were_ able to tell her which hospital they were taken to. Her whole heart wished it wasn't Fred. But then if it wasn't Fred, it was Morse, which would've been just as terrible. With tears in her eyes, she made her way to John Radcliffe Hospital fearing for the worst. And when she found Fred pacing the tiles in the waiting room, she practically flew into his arms with hugs and kisses. She was glad her husband was alright, but deeply worried about Morse's fate. They waited several hours for Morse to come out of surgery, all the while praying that he would pull through.

For the first time in Morse's life, he felt like his existence mattered. It'd been so long since he felt that way, though the last thing he wanted to do was to trouble anyone, especially the Thursdays. But Win was so determined to take care of him that it seemed impossible to turn down. He would never admit it to anyone, but he didn't mind being mothered every now and then. It was sort of nice. He almost relaxed, but then he just remembered something very important and he became agitated. He remembered the urgent phone call from Joycie. Something about his father taking a turn for the worst.

"Heavens, what's wrong?" Win said.

"There's no time. I must go to Lincolnshire and see father." Morse blurted weakly as he pushed back the covers and tried to get out of bed. He hadn't even swung his legs over the side of the bed before the pain took him.

"You're not going anywhere in this condition." Win said worriedly, while ordering Morse back in bed. "Fred, say something." She fussed with the folds of the blanket.

"No need to get all worked up. I rang your sister and your father has stabilized for the time being." DI Thursday said.

"You can go as you like once you're better." Win suggested.

On that note, Morse uncontrollably burst into a fit of tears that he'd been holding in for a long time. Perhaps it was really out of character for Morse to display such weakness. But after all this, he just couldn't be that strong anymore. He needed to release. He looked back on the toils of his life and he couldn't help but feel cursed to an extent. And to think there was a point in time where he was so low that he wanted to take his own life. He was sixteen - a vulnerable age. After his mother died, there was nothing left. He seldom got along with his father, and his stepmother was abusive. He was on good terms with his half-sister, Joyce, but no matter how he looked at it, he was never really close to her or anyone. He denied needing anyone and shied away from society. Basically, he'd given up on people and submerged himself into his own little world of opera and Wagner. The raw emotion caught Fred and Win off guard because the last thing they expected was to see Morse break down. They didn't think he was capable of breaking down.

"Was it something I said?" Win's nose wrinkled nervously.

"No, love. Let me handle this. Why don't you go to the cafeteria and get us a cup of coffee?" DI Thursday gave his wife a peck on the cheeks before she gathered her purse and left the room.

"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to bawl like that." Morse muttered, trying very hard to quit crying but tears were still streaming down his pale face. He knew very well why he cried and he would never admit it to any living soul. It had been a long time since anyone extended such kindness towards him. He was so very heartened and in a fragile frame of mind, all those bottled emotions and anguish just came spilling out.

"No need for apologies." DI Thursday said, taking a seat. He felt sorry for Morse.

"Too many things going on inside my head." Morse sighed, blinking away tears.

"Didn't think anyone would care, did you?" DI Thursday said, reading Morse's mind. "Look, I don't know your story, and I get it if you don't want to tell me, but from the looks of things, I know you've had it rough. Life has probably screwed you over. No matter how bad things get, you need to know that there is still some good left in this world."

"I know it now." Morse replied. He was glad he didn't have to pour his heart out to DI Thursday for him to understand. And Thursday was right - he wasn't ready to face his past. There were so many things he tucked away. Things were just too painful to bear.

"You were lucky. The bullet didn't hit anything vital. For a minute, we thought we'd lost you. Glad we didn't." DI Thursday said.

"It's my fault. I should have known. Should've been prepared." Morse said, tear-stained face and all.

"Morse, nothing could've prepared you for what happened. It wasn't your fault." DI Thursday said. "She pulled a fast one over us."

DI Thursday looked different without his grey trilby hat, which he smartly wore at a tilt, looking like something out of a Bogart film. His short salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back with gel. The crow's feet on the corner of his eyes showed signs of hardship and age. Coming from a broken family, Morse never had a real father figure. DI Thursday saw the signs and felt it his duty to save this drifting soul. There was something about Morse that was worth saving. Being a surrogate father for Morse somehow just happened. No regrets.

"You've got a good head on those shoulders. You will continue to be the best Detective Constable you can be. And I'm going to personally make sure you're ready for your sergeant exams." DI Thursday said. "Somebody's got to keep you in line."

"Thank you, sir, for saving my life." Morse said. He owed a lot to his chief. DI Thursday saved his life in more ways than one. He had so much faith in him and refused to let him throw his life away. No one had ever looked out for him and made sure he was doing alright, making the right decisions. Morse felt very lucky indeed.

**End**

Author's Note: Thank you for reading. Please review if you get a chance!


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